Updates are going to happen daily, or every two days, now that the story is finished. Every review is appreciated, although I would like more than just agree/disagree messages. Explain what you liked/ did not like, not just say that the chapter failed to match your preferences.
Katrina coughed sickly. No words came out of her constricted, sore throat. Only whimpers of pain.
"Woman, you feel so soft."
She never dared open her eyes since the blow that winded her. She did not want to see the man; feeling his brutal thrusts was a torment, and his hot breath on her soggy face was suffocating. When Katrina wanted to moisten her lips, she tasted not the salty sweat, but blood mixed with sweat.
"Woman!"
Katrina opened her mouth to scream, but only a gurgle came out. In that moment, the clutch on her breasts became seething agony, and the pressure only increased as the man poured himself into her.
Then he exhaled, panting laboriously, satisfied with how her body traded pain for his delight.
Katrina wished to die. To escape the terrible pain, to forget the man's tight presence inside the area reserved for her husband. But as long as his panting lived on, so did her suffering.
Katrina groaned softly, quailing at the man's touch. Arms wrapped around her numb form, right after she felt his presence leaving her thighs. Too dizzy, too shocked Katrina was to realize what was happening. She barely felt the man's body against her, the nausea produced by drag against the tough wooden surface of the table.
The man lifted her. One hand under her knees, one under her back. Like two pillars. Like Roran's grip.
He walked with firm, long steps.
Something opened. The screech was soft, but the light that reflected against Katrina's shut eyelids indicated that it was a door. Was the torment at its end?
Suddenly, her body was no longer held above the ground. She somehow fell.
Rasps of agony erupted from Katrina's throat. Her bulged belly felt like a ball of fire against the tough surface she was lying on, helpless and useless. After a few violent coughs, serenity finally came to her.
"There blood coming out of her..."
"Aye, she fell on the bulge of her belly."
"There's something else on her legs too…"
"Aye, someone squirted into her."
"Her husband?"
"Nay."
"The assassins?"
"Might be."
The two voices—one deep, one not quite so—roused Katrina to her senses. She was in pain, much like one of those times when Sloan punished the meat on her body with fists and wooden sticks. The punishments hardened her, but did not prepare her for such brutality.
Everything throbbed and felt stiff. The belly ached, the breasts were scalding meat, the limbs refused to bend, and she could barely keep her senses alert.
She gained temporary respite, but the man, his tightness inside her—they decayed not. Still, she needed to be strong. For Roran, and for her child.
"She blinked, Farduran."
"Aye, she's coming to senses."
Colors mixed before her eyes, converging into an unintelligible blur. Glimpsing the two men felt daunting and useless. Katrina blinked several times to clear her vision and tried to pull her body upwards with the aid of her arms.
"She can't do it. She too weak."
"Aye, we aid her."
Sturdy arms grabbed Katrina, pushing her ragged frame up. Her unsteady feet scrambled across the dusty path, but they soon found a fragile steadiness.
With her arms curled against the neck of the two men, Katrina's fingers twitched relentlessly. She could not tidy her torn dress, nor could she touch her private area that had oozed the blood that dirtied her legs.
"We take her to healer."
"Aye, she safe there."
"No," Katrina mumbled hoarsely. "Home."
"Don't know where Home is."
"Aye, you need a healer. You pee blood."
Katrina swallowed what little moisture dwelled in her mouth and inhaled deeply. The pain, she could bare, but the numbness was perilous if not alleviated. The haze slowly began to dissipate as Katrina inhaled and exhaled, relaxing her sore muscles. The sounds became clearer, and the soiled dress that dangled on her body turned into a filthy burden.
For a moment, she ignored the two men while she tried to understand what happened. It was a sour memory of suffering and agony, but she needed to tell Roran. She wanted the man who had violated her intimate depths and flung her like spoiled meat dead.
Retribution gave her a new purpose. It felt refreshing, like the surge of the crystalline spring Katrina used to bathe on the outskirts of Carvahall. Even pain felt lesser in front of the new purpose, and the tremors of pain turned to shudders of impatience.
"I am a healer," Katrina said, remembering the authority she held as Lady Healer. "The numerous herbs I have in my house will heal everything."
Her voice sounded less distorted and more powerful, almost commanding. The young armored man regarded her with inquisitive emerald eyes and nodded respectfully.
"You have to show us where. We aid you," the other said.
"Avoid the marketplace," Katrina suggested. She did not wish other men to view her, least talk to them.
"Worry not about the assassins," the young one smiled. "Farduran is skilled with more than just one weapon."
"Forward," Katrina said. "And then left, right before the main road. Then…"
Katrina made sure to include as many paths—even the ones she felt reluctant to walk alone—into her slurring words. The assassins, whoever they were, were a mystery to her, but wounds needed tending, and she craved for Roran's comforting and loving words.
"You are a tough one, lady," the older man chuckled. "Beaten, and you still talk."
Katrina smiled wanly. Appearing kind and pleasant to people was an effective form of manipulation. She loathed the two—the way they talked about her, but she needed them.
With the soldiers supporting much of her weight, Katrina shuffled forward, her bare feet kicking dust and pebbles. The sun was hidden behind the ramshackle houses of this part of Feinster, sprouting new concerns into Katrina's already troubled mind. She did not know how long the peaceful darkness claimed her. The blood hardened on her thighs, turning into dead crimson dust. Her messy hair dangled down her dust caked face, not only irritating, but clouding her vision too.
Of the two soldiers, Katrina tolerated the younger better. Compared to the bald, husky Farduran, his lanky face retained the innocence of youth. His face reddened when he peeked at her private area, and he never stared. Farduran's eyes glimmered with lust, while he was just curious.
"See them," Farduran said.
They stopped for a moment on the path before the marketplace. On the stone paved road, Katrina saw the Varden soldiers dragging the riotous people away. They squirmed, they shouted and accused, but they never escaped.
"The tanned leather vests and pristine armor hide poison vials, small daggers, and other tools the assassins use," the young man whispered in her left ear.
"They poisoned the food of the kind merchants, too."
"They will be executed," Farduran concluded at Katrina's nod.
As they followed the left path, the noises of the marketplace began to scatter. The tall buildings that housed the nobles blocked most of the agitation that engulfed Feinster. Guarded against the sounds of captured people, Katrina relived the moment when her voice sealed Lehmontecte's fate. The man wanted to help her, and her fear rewarded him with execution.
"Bear no troubles," Farduran said. "When you are home, we go find the assassin that squirted seed inside you. Crush his head with a hammer, I will."
"Like that Stronghammer!" the young one intervened excitedly. "Farduran is proficient with all kind of weapons."
Katrina almost disregarded his words when she heard the name of her husband. Pride bloomed inside her, amplifying her desire to meet with her beloved.
"He's my husband," Katrina said with pride. "Kind Farduran, it is he who will kill that man."
"Heh," he grunted hoarsely, looking away. "Then he will."
"When he returns," Katrina added.
An ominous silence followed. The young one parted his lips, glanced at Katrina, but hesitated. The path was narrow and long, and she dwelled not on his reaction. Every time he did that, Katrina assumed that he caught a glimpse of her beautiful breasts, or looked between her legs.
"The military leader for small operations never returned," Farduran uttered grimly. "Them assassins got him."
"We don't know!" The young man cut in sharply. "Prestov was not alone, and he had a task from Nasuada."
A strange shudder vibrated through Katrina's worn-out muscles. The name sounded oddly familiar.
"Nasuada, the Council, that false Council Representative," Farduran scoffed. "Nobody is away for so long after a siege. He is dead."
The young man looked sullen and enraged, but he said nothing to the older soldier who bore down on him sternly.
Katrina frowned. She never liked the man, but the austere conviction his voice boomed with frightened her.
"Roran is away from bed for longer than I wish to say. Maybe…" her words suddenly came to a stop.
Katrina's legs buckled awkwardly, forcing her arms to tighten around the men's neck for support.
"Lady, your—"
"Blood," Farduran said coolly. "The child is peeing its own essence."
Trickles of warm blood slithered down Katrina's thighs. Her belly did not hurt more than it already did, yet her body felt flimsy, her mind fuzzy. Sweat seeped out of her skin, and the tattered dress felt like a sweltering prison.
"Have to get her home," Katrina heard the young man say urgently. "She can heal herself."
"Nonsense," Farduran harsh and disgusting voice surfaced. "The one who squirted into her entered too deep. Was too harsh. Hit her hard."
Dismay was all that Katrina felt until the two soldiers discarded her filthy form into the clean bed she and Roran shared. The young one insisted to aid her, but Farduran left, dragging his companion away as fast as they brought her home.
She felt unnaturally weak, devoid of energy and purpose. Limbs refused to respond to her pleas, and until the sun died in the sky, she had only laid down, soiling the clean sheets with the dingy dress, watering them with blood.
When the crimson flow finally stopped and strength returned to her, Katrina smiled wryly.
Prestov, she thought. He was the man that hauled my husband out of this bed.
The revelation did not devastate, nor crippled her. Her senses, her feelings and thoughts were too numb to pile more on the mound of suffering. The man that had leaked his seed into her and killed her child would never die, because her husband died before her plea came to life. The long awaited touch, the comforting words she had waited for would never come. If Prestov was dead, then Roran was dead too.
Like a ghastly apparition, Katrina rose to her feet. With a maladroit shuffle and a resolute determination, she entered the kitchen. The smell of decay was the first she noticed. Flies buzzed around the cheese, and the maize porridge emitted a foul smell.
Katrina picked the meat cleaver.
You are a huge burden. The hollow between your legs represents the worth you have for me, Sloan once said to her during one of his drunken hazes. The memory of her father was the only thing she had left in this world.
I always hated you, father, Katrina smirked before the meat cleaver met her neck.
The harsh midday sun—together with the incoherent shouts of the crowd—affected Nasuada more than the simple decision she had to deliver.
They were unusually loud and savage today. Instead of witnessing an execution with dignity and solemnity, the people desperately sought to break the outer square of soldiers that acted as a dam against raging waters.
Maybe it was the heat, scorching them, or maybe they were just impatient.
From atop the mansion, Nasuada couldn't tell. A leader was burdened with more important concerns, and Nasuada still hasn't figured why her own people turned against each other. Had they not been happy with her rule? Had she pushed them into Galbatorix's waiting hands by neglecting their needs?
More unnerving was Horst's appearance. He and other Carvahall villagers calmly waited the visit of the executioner, kneeled in a straight line with the other assassins who concealed their dreaded assassination tools in clean clothing or polished armor.
Feet thudded on the wooden stairway.
"Proceed," Nasuada said, still staring at the culprits. The commotion prevented her from getting close, and Nasuada had to settle with her plain, deficient imagination. She thought they stared at her menacingly, with gnarled and twisted figures. They hated her.
Soldiers parted, allowing a lone man entrance through the ranks of boisterous people. The same man who came to her and hear her decision.
The crowd protested harshly at his appearance, yelling, occasionally throwing their bulks against the armored soldiers.
Nasuada frowned. Something motivated them to fight her rule. They wouldn't risk their life pointlessly at a display intended to quell a possible uprising. Whippings, and the occasional execution instilled an irrational fear in their hearts. It was Nasuada's only way to control a people deprived of hope and safety.
Today, it almost proved ineffective.
Heads fell, cries echoed. And the crowd's spirits basked in it, fueling their power. Their hatred of her.